


Ready?

by IcarusPendragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Depression, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Schizophrenia, Self-Harm, Suicidal Dean, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenagers, Triggers, treatment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcarusPendragon/pseuds/IcarusPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life has always thrown everything it has in Dean Winchester's face. But what happens when it all becomes too much? Will he be ready? <br/>(formally Scattered)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

　　I fiddle nervously with the amulet around my neck, waiting for the doctor to come in. I try to keep my legs from shaking, but I can’t. The soft thudding is the only thing that fills the otherwise quiet room. Every so often I can hear a muffled voice, but that’s it. Sitting next to me is Sam, I shoot a glance at him. He doesn’t say anything, but he puts his hand on my forearm, trying to be reassuring I guess. It doesn’t really work, but I appreciate the effort. I give a weak smile (all I can manage at the moment) and then I turn to look at the door for about the thousandth time. I don’t like waiting, especially for things like this. Bobby is the one who finally breaks the silence.  
　　“You’re gonna be fine boy. This is to help you, not to hurt you.”  
　　I just look at him. I’m afraid that if I open my mouth vomit rather than words will come out. I nod my head at him though, not really believing in the action but doing it for his sake. I go back to messing with the amulet and trying not to shake my legs and failing at the latter.  
　　Finally, after what seems like ages, the door opens and in walks a man who looks to be about fifty. He has speckled hair and a pair of glasses perched precariously on his long nose. He carries a plain clipboard tucked under his arm. Probably loaded with the details of my short miserable life.  
　　Bobby stands to meet him and shake his hand, Sam does the same. I do not for fear of falling over if I do try to stand.  
　　“My name is Dr. Mize and I have been assigned to Dean’s case.” His says by way of introduction.  
　　He shoots a glance at me and smiles slightly. “This must be Dean.”  
　　I don’t do anything, I’m still a little hung up on how he said “case” like I’m a criminal or something.  
　　He sits down on a small round cushioned stool, sets his clipboard down on the counter, and turns to me.  
　　“I’m gonna ask you a few questions, just so I can learn a little about you and how to help you. Is that okay?”  
　　I still don’t know if I’m capable of words, but I swallow and nod my head yes in response anyway.  
　　“Alright.” He says, smiling again, putting a hand on my knee. I stiffen when he does that but the doctor doesn’t seem to notice.  
　　He flips open the clipboard and takes out a pen from his coat pocket.  
　　“Your name is Dean Winchester, correct?”  
　　I nod my head.  
　　“And how old are you, Dean?”  
　　I swallow again and say, “Seventeen.” only it doesn’t really come out in my voice. Something rougher and lower, gruff and gravelly.  
　　He marks it down.  
　　“How are you feeling today?”  
　　“I’m fine.” I say, which is a lie I tell so often I don’t even think before it slips past my lips.  
　　He looks and me and I look him in the eye and I know that he sees right through it in a second, but he marks it down anyway.  
　　“Have you been feeling depressed as of late?”  
　　I think about making some smartass, but the look in the doctor’s eyes shows he means business.  
　　“Yes.”  
　　He marks it down.  
　　“How long would you say you have been feeling this way?”  
　　“A year, maybe a year and a half. I don’t really know.”  
　　He marks it down.  
　　“Did anything significant in your life happen that might have triggered how you’re feeling?”  
　　“Nothing that I’m willing to talk about.”  
　　He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, I just shrug. He marks it down.  
　　“Do you ever feel anxious over everyday tasks, like going to the store or going to school or answering the phone? Anything like that?”  
　　“Yes.”  
　　He marks it down.  
　　“Have you ever had any suicidal thoughts?”  
　　I have managed not to look at Bobby or Sam during any of this, I know this is hard enough for them, knowing that I’m a screwup, but not knowing the extent. Just knowing that something was wrong with me, but not knowing how bad. I hate that they have to find out this way. I look past the doctor and into Bobby’s eyes when I say “Yes.”.  
　　Bobby and Sam deserve to know that it’s not them, it’s me.  
　　The doctor marks it.  
　　“How often do these thoughts occur?”  
　　I turn and look at Sam, he’s looking at me with these big puppy eyes and I think how can I protect him if I can’t even protect myself from myself. But I know that I need to do this for Sam, so he can see that I tried, I really really tried.  
　　“Every day.”  
　　He marks it down.  
　　“Have you ever considering hurting yourself or others?”  
　　“Yes.” I answer.  
　　He marks it down.  
　　“How often do you think about it?”  
　　“Every day.”  
　　Another mark.  
　　“Do you ever hurt yourself?”  
　　“Yes.”  
　　He marks it down.  
　　“How often do you hurt yourself, Dean?”  
　　“Nearly every day.”  
　　Another scratch on the clipboard.  
　　“Have you ever tried to commit suicide?”  
　　I’m not really sure why he asks me this questions, that’s pretty much the whole reason why I’m here.  
　　 “Yes.”  
　　My response echos across the room. I can hear the sound of the pen scratching across the clipboard.  
　　“When was the last time you tried to commit suicide?” Even the doctors voice has softened. I don’t look up from the ground but I know that he’s staring at me, that Bobby and Sam are too.  
　　“Two days ago.” My voice just doesn’t sound like my voice for some reason.  
　　I see Sam move his leg so it leans against mine, trying to offer some sort of support I guess. I move my leg. I know that it’ll hurt his feelings, but I don’t deserve any support from anyone, not when we’re talking about this.  
　　I hear the doctor shift and I look up at him. He’s set the pen down on the counter and he’s leaning foreward and looking at me very intensely. I try not to break eye contact, but I can’t look at him, so I just look his coat pocket.  
　　“And how did you do that?”  
　　It was quiet in the small room before, but it’s absolutely dead silent now. It feels like the walls are slowly caving in on me. The silence is suffocating and it’s too hot in the room. Everyone is looking at me. Expecting an answer, but I can’t say anything. So I carefully role up the sleeves to my shirt and extend my arms by way of answer. The undersides of both arms are covered by clean white bandages. The doctor can probably guess the meaning.  
　　“Do you still want to kill yourself, Dean?”  
　　My throat is closing up, it too hot in this tiny room. I can feel panic rising in my chest. I’m trying my best to control it all. I just nod my head yes. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to collect myself. I can’t have a breakdown here, not like this. I open my eyes, even though I’m not ready. The I can feel Sam and Bobby and Dr. Mize’s eyes on me. The weight of their stares suffocates me.  
　　Dr. Mize leans back, taking off his glasses as he does so. He picks up the clipboard and flips through the pages. Then he looks at me.  
　　“From what you’ve told me and what you told the doctors when you first got to the hospital it sounds like you have severe depression, anxiety, and suicidal tendencies. I want to prescribe you some medication that will help you, but I can’t until you’ve had a psychiatric evaluation. Your psychiatrist and I will both be working together to figure out the best way to treat you.” He stops talking to me and turns to Bobby. “I’m assuming you’re his legal guardian?”  
　　Bobby nods his head yes.  
　　“Because he is a minor, it is state law for him to be put in a adolescent psychiatric ward.”  
　　“What?” Bobby asks, sounding taken aback.  
　　Dr. Mize looks at him and then explains. “State law mandates that any minor at risk of hurting himself or herself must go to a mental health facility. There they will watch over him and he will receive treatment. He will be released once I and his psychiatrist feel he is no longer a danger to himself. Now, I have a facility that I recommend to everyone, but the choice to which one he goes to is up to you.”  
　　I feel like I’m about to pass out. I knew that I was mental, but being put in the loony bin? That’s a whole new level.  
　　“And how long will it take for him to no longer be a ‘danger’ to himself?” Bobby asks, mocking the word “danger”.  
　　“It depends on the patient. Sometimes it takes days, sometimes weeks, sometimes months. It varies from person to person.”  
　　“And what if I don’t want him to go? Is there not any home treatment he could receive?” Bobby barks.  
　　“I’m sorry Mr. Singer, the law mandates it. There is no home treatment. I have, however, been in touch with a top-notch facility and they are ready to take him in if that is the one you decide to go with. If not, I can help you find another. But this one is the best in the area.”  
　　I look up at Bobby and he seems conflicted. Then I glance at Sam. His eyes are pleading. I know how much he want wants me to go; he knows that I need help. He is the one who found me, covered in blood, my note clutched in my hand on the cold bathroom floor.  
　　A thought occurs to me.What if I’m beyond repair?  
　　I hesitate.  
　　“And what if I can’t be fixed?”  
　　“I wouldn’t worry about that.” Dr. Mize tells me. “The facility has a very high rate of success.”  
　　This doesn’t really mean anything to me as I seem to have a high rate of failure.  
　　“And what if I don’t want to go?” I ask.  
　　“Dean, please.” Sam says, looking at me. “You have to go.”  
I just look at Sam.  
　　“I don’t want Dean going anywhere. I want to be able to watch him and make sure he doesn’t hurt himself again.” Bobby says, looking at the doctor.  
　　“Mr. Singer. It’s of the upmost import that Dean receives treatment as soon as possible. And I have no control over it. State law mandates that he must go.” Replies Dr. Mize sounding exasperated.  
　　Bobby still looks like he isn’t having any of what the doctor say.s.  
　　“May we speak outside for a moment please, Mr.Singer?”  
　　Bobby just gets up and walks out the door, Dr. Mize follows suit leaving Sam and me alone together in the tiny room.  
　　The silence is awkward and terse. I don’t know what to say. I don’t think there’s anything I can say. So I’m left to mull things over in my mind. Of course I don’t want to go, I don’t want to leave Sam or Bobby. The idea of being put in an unfamiliar place with people I don’t know who are just as crazy if not crazier than I am is absolutely terrifying.  
　　Sam finally says something. “I want you to go Dean. I want you to get better.”  
　　“Sammy...” I say, planning on telling him that it’s not as easy as you would think. That I can’t just ‘get better’.  
　　“No!” He says, suddenly angry. “Don’t you pull that ‘Sammy’ bullshit with me. You either want to get better or you don’t. And if you want to get better than you need to go. And if you don’t want to get better you still need to go. You need to go for me and Bobby and Ellen and Jo. We all want you to get better. We would all miss you if you were gone. And don’t give me and bullshit about you not being worth it. You are worth it. So you’re going if I have to drag your ass down there myself.” He finishes. I just stare at him.  
　　“You can go the easy way, or the hard way. But you’re going. It’s your choice on how though.”  
　　I’m about to say something but the door opens and Dr. Mize and Bobby walk back in. Bobby looks slightly irritated but Dr. Mize looks happy and I have a feeling why.  
　　“Dean, after we get done in here you are going to be able to go home and get a few things, clothes and such, and then you will be taken to a facility. It is for the best.”  
　　I don’t say anything. I don’t look at Bobby. I don’t look at Sam. I don’t look at Dr. Mize. I look at my feet and I try not to scream.  
　　Dr. Mize goes over the details with Bobby but I don’t hear a single word he says. All I can hear is a high pitched ringing in my ears and all I can feel is immense anxiety over the thought of leaving.  
　　I keep trying to tell myself that it’s for the best and that Sam wants me to go and so does everyone else. But all I can think of is being alone. Utterly alone.  
　　I know that Bobby finishes talking with the doctor and I’m then ushered out of his office and back into the car and we’re on our way home but it’s like I’m in a dream. Not even that. It’s like a nightmare that started as stray seeds of doubt bouncing around in my head that quickly planted themselves with roots that invaded my deepest and most dark memories. The leaves fanning out and shading myself from the sun. And every time I try to cut this damn plant down it just grows back twice as fast and the poison inside gets stronger and stronger. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on.


	2. Chapter 2

　　We stop by home so I can pick up a few things, but I’m in a dream. And maybe I’m a little pissed that I have to go. And maybe I’m a little hurt that they’re sending me away like this. And maybe I’m a little scared about being away from my family. But there’s no way that I’m going to admit all of this to a head shrinker so they can deem me crazy and either dope me up or keep me locked up like a criminal. I just grab a few things. I’m not sure how long I’m even gonna be at this damn hospital or mental ward or prison or whatever the hell it is.  
　　After I grab everything I can think of and throw it in a bag I sit on the edge of my bed and just stare at the wall and wonder a) when am I going to see it again and b) if maybe I’m being just a little bit dramatic about the whole affair. But the voice inside tells me that Bobby and Sam want to help me and they want me to get better. But then another, even louder voice screams at me that they just want to get rid of me and I’ve been nothing but a bother to them since the very beginning.  
　　I’m not really sure how long I sit there, the two voices in my head arguing, as they always do. Battling for dominance. But I guess it’s been a long time because Sam comes up to make sure I’m ready or alive or something. Either way his appearing at my door silences the voices and I look away from the wall and at him.  
　　“You ready?” He asks me. Probably already knowing the answer.  
　　No.  
　　“Yeah, I guess.” I reply. Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean I can’t still pretend like everything is peachy.  
　　And I know by the glint in Sam’s eyes that he doesn’t believe it. Not for one second.  
　　He doesn’t say anything though, he’s not breaking the habit now either. He just walks down the stairs, expecting me to follow. Which I do.  
　　Bobby is just standing in the foyer, he hears us coming and looks up.  
　　“Ready?” He asks. I’m not really sure why people keep asking that. I’m obviously not going to be ready.  
　　I don’t say anything, I just nod my head yes and he turns around and walks out the front door, leaving it open for Sam and me.  
　　Bobby pops the trunk of the Impala I and put my few belongings in there. And when he slams it shut I feel as if though he’s slamming me shut. Trying to get rid of me. Rationally I know that’s not the case, but the voice argues otherwise.  
　　I get in the front seat like always and Sam gets in the backseat as always and it’s almost as if though we’re going on a trip or something.  
　　The drive to the ward is silent and tense and terse and long and awkward and makes me want to bang my head against the window until blood comes out of my ears.  
　　The next hour and a half is arguably the most anxious occurrence in my life. With each mile the Imapla covers the more and more I can feel the anxiety filling up my chest. Boiling up and threatening to spill over.  
　　My head hurts and my eyes hurt from trying to not cry and so does my throat and I feel weak. I feel weaker than I ever have before and that damn voice in my head that never shuts up just keeps on whispering those little seeds of doubt that I’ll never be good enough and that Sam and Bobby are so glad that I’m going. Not because I’m ‘getting better’ but because they won’t have to be around my sorry ass for a few weeks.  
　　And I think these thoughts all the way there, not daring to voice them.  
　　We pull into a semi-crowded parking lot entitled ‘Patient check-in’ and Bobby finds a spot close to the front and throws the Impala into park and turns the engine off. We all just sit there for a moment, unsure of what to do or say.  
　　After a moment Bobby just pops the trunk open and gets out to get my few belongings.  
　　I steal a breath and open my door. It’s mid-afternoon and much to bright outside for my taste. Squinting, I look around. It doesn’t look much like a ward. No barbed wire fences like I was expecting. But looks can be deceiving.  
　　Sam gets out as well and we all head toward the door together.  
　　None of us has said a single thing in the entire ride here and apparently we’re not breaking that tradition just yet.  
　　I want to stop outside the door for a moment, take on last breath of fresh air. Take one last look around before they check me in. Before I become a prisoner. But I don’t I just take a deep breath and follow Bobby and Sam as they walk casually through the automatic glass doors. I understand how they can be casual, this isn’t their life that’s changing.  
　　After we’re inside the building it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. Once they go into to focus I study my surroundings. It looks like any old normal doctor’s office. Beige carpet with off-white walls. Chairs in neutral colors printed with squares. A lady in scrubs with butterflies on them sitting behind a desk behind a sliding glass window with a sign above it that read ‘Patient Sign-In’. I gulp as Bobby heads over to it.  
　　The lady notices us walking her way and smiles at me.  
　　I do not return the favor.  
　　“Patient name?” She asks Bobby once we get up there.  
　　“Winchester. Dean Winchester.”  
　　She keys it into the computer and clicks a few buttons.  
　　While I’m waiting for her to finish up a look around the room some more. There’re a few people in here with me, not a lot. But more than I expected. I mean, I know I’m not the only fuck-up in the world, but still.  
　　And for some reason they’re all starring at me. I feel like they’re judging me which, yet again is weird because we’re all in here for the same reason.  
　　I guess I zoned out for a moment because next thing I know I’m being lead through a set of double doors that I didn’t notice earlier that reads ‘Authorized Personal Only’.  
　　We were all corralled down a corridor and then the nurse stops in front of a door.  
　　“If you all will please take a seat in there the doctor will be with you in a moment.” She says as she opens the door with another smile on her face. I do not understand how someone could smile so much in this place.  
　　Today has been full of uncomfortable silences and I’m guessing now is not the time to change that.  
　　After a few minutes the a doctor walks in. It’s a lot like earlier. The doctor asks me questions. Bobby answers some, I answer a few others. And before I know it it’s time for me to be taken back and for Sam and Bobby to leave and to be honest I don’t really thing that I’m ready for that. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for that.  
　　“I’ll give you all a moment.” The doctor says as he stands to leave the room. He shuts the door quietly behind him and all that’s left in the room other than us is a sense of forboding.  
　　Nobody says anything. I know the second they do it’ll begin the process of them leaving. Of me leaving. Of me being locked away.  
　　Sam, strangely enough is the first one to say anything. “Promise you’ll get better?”  
　　He has so much positivity and faith in me. I don’t know how.  
　　“Sam...” I say, looking for words, anything really to tell him how impossible all of this is going to be for me. And part of me, part that I’m not going to admit doesn’t want to get better. I deserve all of this.  
　　“Don’t ‘Sam’ me. Just promise.” He says, his young face all too serious.  
　　“Fine. I promise.” I say and this kills me because I know how unlikely it’s going to be for me to uphold this promise. And for just a split second I think I can see that Sam sees it too.  
　　“Good.” He responds. Then it’s Bobby’s turn to speak.  
　　“I’m telling you boy, the only reason I’m doing this is because I want you to get better. I just want you to be happy again.” And I know that that’s all I’m gonna get from him. Neither one of us are the touchy feel-y type.  
　　But the little voice in my head interrupts and says that he’s lying. That I don’t deserve it. I don’t say anything else.  
　　I am absolutely consumed by fear. I have no idea when I’m going to see them again, or eve if I’m going to see them again. Or if they even want to see me again. Probably not.  
　　I shove every single thought I have in my busy head into my freak out box to be opened later, when I’m not with them. That’s how I always deal with things and it’s served me just fine so far.  
　　The doctor comes back in and asks if we’re ready and of course we’re not but we all lie and say yes and they stand and I stand.  
　　Sam walks over to me and wraps his arms around me. Brief and tight. “Get better.” he whispers in my ear. I just nod my head and he lets go. Then it’s Bobby’s turn. He hugs me and when he lets go he says “This is gonna be good for you.” And I don’t believe him and next thing I know they’re walking one way and I’m walking another and it takes everything I have not to look over my shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

　　The doctor leads me back into his office. 

　　“Alright, Dean I’m going to get you your clothes and show you to your room.”   
　　“Clothes?” I ask. 

　　“Yes. All of the patients have a standard attire. No long sleaves or belts or shoelaces. Things of that nature.”

　　“Oh.” Is all I can think to say. Who knew this place would be so stereotypical. I thought that I was at least gonna be able to keep my clothes and they would trust me to not hang myself with my shoelaces. Guess not.   
　　A moment later a pretty nurse knocks on the door and the doctor beckons her in. If I was feeling any better I would flirt with her. Too bad I’m not.   
　　She sets a stack of clothes down on the counter. White t-shirt, light blue pants, and a pair of slip on shoes. She smiles at me before turning to leave. I still don’t understand what’s up with all of the smiling in this place.   
　　“Thank you, Amber.” The doctor, whose name I realize that I do not actually know, calls at her retreating back. I think it would be kind of awkward to ask him at this point. So I don’t. 

　　“Alright, Dean. If you will grab those I’ll show you to your room.” He says, gesturing to my uniform. 

　　I stand and so does the doctor and I pick everything up and he opens the door and walks out and I follow.

　　I pass a few patients on the way to my room but they don’t say anything or even make eye contact with me. Good to know everyone is going to be so friendly.   
　　The doctor tells me a little about the facility and how everything works but I only catch bits and pieces. Just that girls have a wing and boys have a wing and there’s an open door policy and that everything is on a schedule and so on and so forth.   
　　I take this time to study my surroundings. Everything is surprisingly open and light considering the darkness within. There are lots of windows everywhere and the walls are white and so are the tiles on the floor and there are light blue accents everywhere and everything feels very sterile and clean and organized and I do not like it. Not one bit.   
　　Eventually we reach an open door and the doctor walks inside. I follow suit.   
　　The inside of the room is much like the halls. Clean and sterile and white. And much like the halls I don’t like it either. 

　　“This’ll be your home for the next little bit. Make yourself comfy. I’ll leave you to change. There’s a map of the facility inside your nightstand. Dinner is in twenty minutes. Head down there when you’re ready.” And with that, he leaves. I like how he a) did not give me a definable time to my sentence and b) indicated that I can make myself comfortable here. Which I find very unlikely and c) gave me the option to come down when I was ready. Which I do not think will be anytime soon.   
　　I can feel anxiety welling up in my chest at the prospect of going somewhere unfamiliar. Being forced to interact, or at least seen and judged, by people I have never seen before. I do not like any of this. Not on little bit and I can feel tears start to well up in my eyes and I can feel this strings that hold me loosely together begin to snap and I can’t let that happen. Not now. Not ever. I will myself not to cry. I stare at the single light in my room and wait until the tears have receded.   
　　I try and focus on the task at hand and get undressed and put on my new clothes. The fabric is the pants is coarse and it makes my skin crawl.   
　　This entire place makes my skin crawl. I have never felt more out of place in my life.   
　　   
　　  
　　  
　　  
　　After sitting in my room for half an hour and nearly going insane in the process I decide, against my better judgment, to go get dinner. If it gets too bad I can always leave and come back up here and sulk all by myself like I’m used to.   
　　I reference the map of the place and head out.   
　　I arrive to a surprisingly crowded cafeteria and look around for a moment before entering the double doors.   
　　It reminds me of the time right after Dad died and Sam and I had just moved in with Bobby and it was our first day at our new school and I walked in the cafeteria and I felt so anxious I could vomit. That day ended with detention for me and a bloody nose for some other asshole. I hope it doesn’t happen again.   
　　I steal my breath and head inside and I try and not think about all the people who I don’t know and for how the first time in my life I am utterly and truly alone.   
　　Naturally that doesn’t happen and I try and shove the thoughts aside for later.   
　　I get in line and a lady grabs a tray and asks what I want. I hadn’t really thought about it. I’m not actually all that hungry. I haven’t been hungry in a while. I just point at the first thing I see, some pasta thing, and she puts it on the tray with a smile and asks if I want anything else and I say no and she puts a bottle of apple juice on it and a spoon and then hands it over the counter to me. I give her a glint of a smile to say ‘thank you’ and then turn around to face the tables.   
　　It really is just like the first day of school all over again. There are about twenty tables, all full or nearly full of boys and girls who I do not know and do not want to know.   
　　I’ve never been any good at making friends. That was always Sam. He could become friends with anyone. Even the people in here. But Sam would never be in here. I would die before I let that happen.   
　　Fortunately I spot an empty table towards the back next to a window and head towards it so I don’t have to stand there awkwardly.   
　　Once I take a seat I notice just how loud it is in here. Not loud like a regular cafeteria, but loud enough. I look around and see patients smiling. Laughing even.   
　　It’s strange to see people in here go on about living and laughing and smiling. I would think this was the one place that you wouldn’t have to put up a front.   
　　I look in the eyes of a few of the patients and I see it. Or the lack of it rather. Their faces say ‘happy’ but their eyes say ‘dead inside’.   
　　Before I can think about it anymore I hear a chair scrape and I look up and see a kid, maybe a year younger than me, take a seat across from me. I just stare at him and he stares back.   
　　He’s tall and lean. Attractive to say the least. Jet black hair and fucking ocean blue eyes. 

　　“I usually sit here. You must be new.” He says by way of introduction. “My name is Castiel.” He adds.   
　　I just stare at him. He doesn’t say anymore, but he starts eating.   
　　I had all but forgotten about the food in front of me. I pick up my spoon and take a tentative bite, not knowing what to expect. It tastes kind of like glue, but I swallow it anyway. Mental hospital food is no different than regular hospital food apparently.   
　　I somewhat remember my manners and reply. “Dean.”   
　　Castiel looks up. “Hmm?”

　　“Dean. My name is Dean.” I say.

　　“Oh.” he says, and then goes back to eating. 

　　I look down at his arms, and see that he has a lot of scars just like me. I notice that they’re not just lines. His scars are composed of weird symbols and sigils and I recognize a couple, but the rest are foreign.   
　　“They keep the demons and evil things away.” He tells me. With a slight smile on his face. I didn’t realize that I had been starring.   
　　I mumble a “Sorry.” And look down at my food. I only take two or three more bites. A few minutes later a bell rings and everyone gets up and throws their stuff away. I get up to follow and so does Castiel. 

　　We don’t say anything else to each other as we walk towards the trash. Or as we walk out the door together. Or as we head down the same hallway. Or when we get to my room and I see that his is right next to mine. Not one single word. Just a slight smile as he shuts his door.   
　　I walk into my room and I sit on my bed, it creaks slightly, but not as bad as some of the motel room beds I’ve stayed in.   
　　I lay down and stare at the ceiling. The doctor told me earlier that lights out was at nine but I don’t even think it’s eight yet, I’m not sure, there’s not a clock in my room. He told us that we would have a little free time in the evenings but I don’t really know what sort of free activities I could do here.   
　　So instead I think. 

　　I think about Sam and Bobby and Ellen and Jo and Ash and Mom and even Dad. I think about how much I miss them and how I want to be a better person for them, I really do. I think about how every time I try and get better life just piles more shit on top of me.   
　　I think about how when I was younger my mother used to wipe tears from my eyes whenever I got hurt. I know I’m nearly grown, but damn do I wish she was still around to do it. To even just be here. But I would never admit that out loud.   
　　I think about Dad and how after Mom died he couldn’t handle it and how he threw his life away until he was nothing.   
　　I think about how I promised myself that I would never be like him. I would handle the grief better. I think about how badly I fucked that up.   
　　I lay there and I look at the ceiling and I think about how alone and worthless I am. I wish I had a bottles, pills, anything. Anything to take it away.   
　　But instead I’m left with my thoughts and goddamn are they eating me whole.   
　　For the first time in a while I allow a few tears to slip out.   
　　I’ve been holding them in all day and if I held them in any longer I’m sure to explode.   
　　I try and keep everything under control but the few tears quickly turn into a steady stream and I can feel the sobs building up in my chest and I take one hand and then the other and I use them both to cover my mouth, to try and let no sound escape.   
　　I squeeze my eyes shut and I hope and I pray to the highest being out there that all of this will just end.   
　　I would give anything to have it end.   
　　  
　　  
　　  
　　  
　　  
　　  
　　I must have fallen asleep because I am jolted into consciousness by screaming.   
　　Awful painful, guttural, gut-wrenching screaming.   
　　I recognize the type. It’s brought on by nightmares and demons and creatures that won’t leave you alone.   
　　I know the feeling and I feel for the poor bastard, who ever it is. I really do.   
　　I grab my pillow and I put it over top my head like I used whenever Mom and Dad would get into it to try and block out some of the noise. It doesn’t work. But I manage to drift off into dreamland somehow.   
　　And tonight my dreams are no different than any other night.   
　　Dark and full of that not so little voice telling me that I’ll never be good enough. That my makeshift family deserves so much more than me. The voice tells me that I’d be better off, that the whole entire world would be better off without me. And I believe it. I believe it with every fiber of my being.   
　　At least I don’t wake up screaming anymore.   
　　


	4. Chapter 4

　　I wake up at about 8:30 when a nurse comes and knocks on my door. She gives me a quick briefing about my schedule for the day. Starting off with a meeting with my new doctor, some Moseley women, then followed by group therapy. After that I’ll have creative writing which will take the place of school while I’m here and honestly sounds like a bunch of bullshit. Then lunch, then assembly, then ‘free’ time, then dinner, then more ‘free’ time, then bed. 

　　I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the day. 

　　I get up and put on a new set of clothes that the nurse dropped of while waking me and make my way down to the hall with all the doctors.   
　　It may be early, but the place is already bustling. Patients are lined up at a nurse station to receive medicine, doctors in white lab coats are making rounds, kids are wondering around aimlessly. 

　　Most of the time I find solace in scenes like this, it’s easy to lose myself, people aren’t paying close attention to me. 

　　This time it’s a little different. 

　　I find a door labeled Dr. Missouri Moseley, unsure of what to do just stand there for a moment. 

　　I’m sure I should knock but I know that I’m not ready to go in yet. I’m sure I’ll never be ready. 

　　Before I can dwell on it anymore the door opens and a short, plump black woman is standing in front of me. 

　　“Hi, Dean. I’ve been expecting you. Come on in.” She says, stepping aside and leaving the door open so I can follow.

　　I take a tentative step over the threshold and I’m instantly surprised at how warm it is in there.

　　Soft yellows and browns and earth tones cover the walls and her desk rather then the sterile color and feel that the rest of the hospital has. 

　　“Well don’t just stand there boy. Take a seat.” 

　　I bit taken aback by her forwardness, I do as she says. “And don’t even think about putting your feet on that table. It’s new.” She says, gesturing towards her coffee table with a slight smile on her face. 

　　“So, Dean. Tell a bit about yourself.” 

　　I guess she’s not one for small talk. 

　　“Well, my name is Dean Winchester. Seventeen years young. I like long walks on the beach and perky blondes.” I tell her. I’m feeling a bit better since the incident. A little more like myself. But far from okay. It’s like the calm after a storm. 

　　She just smiles at me. “My name is Dr. Missouri Moseley. You can just call me Missouri though. I have a PhD from Yale and I think you’re full of shit, Dean Winchester.” 

　　I’m a bit taken aback, and won’t admit to anyone, even myself. But I do think I’m going to like her. 

　　“Tell me why you’re here, Dean.” She amends. 

　　“You know why I’m here.” I tell her. Because she does. 

　　“I want you to tell me why, though.” She tells me. 

　　“I heard the food was great and I just had to come and try it.” I tell her back. 

　　“Afraid to talk about your feelings so you hide behind and mask of bravado and bad jokes. I’ve seen your type before, Winchester.” She responds. 

　　“Then why did you bother asking if you already know the answer?” I ask, looking her in the eyes. They’re full of sympathy. Part of me longs for it while the other part tells me I don’t deserve it. 

　　“Because I want to hear you put it into your own words. So, I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?” 

　　I think about this. I come up with another snappy comeback, but decide to maybe tell the truth. 

　　Why am I here?

　　“I’m here because I’m a fuckup. I’m here because I’m mental. Not right in the head. A nut job.” I tell her. 

　　“And you believe that about yourself?” She asks. Her voice quiet. 

　　“Yes.” I respond.

　　“Why do you believe that?” She asks in return. 

　　I’d never really thought about it. After my mother died things started to get bad. And then it happened and then Dad died. I can’t really pinpoint when all of this started happening. 

　　“I just do. It’s true.” I tell her. 

　　She mulls this over for a moment, then pulls a booklet out of her desk. It looks like the ones I used for the SATs when I was younger. 

　　“This is a little test we give to all of the patients. To see where you’re at. After you take this and I review it I’ll be able to put you on some medication.” 

　　She slides the booklet to me along with a pencil. 

　　“It’s seventy-five questions. It consists of questions like ‘Do you ever feel depressed?’ or ‘Do you ever feel anxious?’ and you’ll fill in of the bubble that says ‘sometimes, always, or never.’ Do you understand.”

　　I nod. 

　　“Good. Take your time let me know if you have any questions.” She then turns to her computer and starts typing away. 

　　I flip open the book and look at question one. 

　　1) How often do you feel happy?   
　　I mark the never. 

　　2) Do you ever experience negative thoughts towards yourself.   
I mark the always. 

　　3) Do you ever experience low self-esteem when it comes to body image.  
I mark the sometimes. 

　　Seventy-two questions later I hand the book back to Missouri and she takes it with a smile. 

　　“Do you have any questions, Dean?” 

　　I shake my head.

　　“Alright. It’s about time for breakfast. After that you’ll go to group therapy. Your group will consist of the people on your hall.” My mind goes to Castiel. I get a weird feeling in my stomach thinking about him. And not in an entirely bad way. 

　　“We will meet every morning, first thing. But my door is always open. Don’t hesitate to come if you need to.” She tells me, a smile on her face. 

　　She has such warmth in her eyes is hits me hard. It reminds me of my mom, and how she would look at me. 

　　That familiar ache in my chest is back and I shove it into the box to be dealt with later.

　　I nod and stand and exit her room. 

　　I walk down the the cafeteria trying not to think about how much I miss my family and not really succeeding. 

　　I’m on autopilot as I walk in and get my food, only to be snapped out of it when I realize that I have to pick somewhere to sit down. The room is still pretty empty but I don’t want to plop down just anywhere and the only person I know in this damn place is Castiel. 

　　I just decide to go and sit where I did yesterday and hope things go better than they did yesterday.

　　Sure enough Castiel shows up with a smile on his face. 

　　“Good morning, Dean.” He says, cheerily. 

　　“Mornin’.” I call back, taking a bite of my food. Which I’m guessing is oatmeal. 

　　“Sleep well?” He asks. I don’t really see how he can make such easy conversation. But I give him an answer anyway. 

　　“No worse than usual. You?” 

　　“I didn’t.”

　　“You didn’t what?” I ask. 

　　“Didn’t sleep.” He responds. 

　　“Oh.” I is all I can think to say. 

　　He just shrugs and takes a bite of his food. 

　　An awkward silence falls and Castiel ignores it and so do I. 

　　He takes another bite of food. Then another. Then another. I don’t know if I should do something to break the silence, or if he wants me to. I’ve never been good at reading other people. Telling if they wanted to talk or not. 

　　“What’s your favorite color?” He asks all the sudden.

　　“What?” I repeat, even though I heard what he asked. I wonder why he asked, or even why he would want to know. 

　　“Favorite color. What is your favorite color? Mine is green.” He tells me. 

　　“Why are you asking?” I question. “Why do you even care?” 

　　He just shrugs. “It’s one of those things that say a lot about a person.”

　　I mull it over. I don’t actually know what my favorite color is. I just wear a lot of dark stuff because I feel like it makes me less noticeable, less of a target. 

　　“I dunno man, black maybe.” 

　　He takes a bite of his food and then swallows. 

　　“Why are you here?” He asks, child-like wonder and innocence in his eyes. 

　　“The fuck, dude?” I feel like I’m getting grilled enough by these doctors, and now him. 

　　“Sorry.” He says, not looking at all apologetic. 

　　I glare at him. He’s weird and I don’t know if it’s a weird that I would like. 

　　He doesn’t ask anymore questions. We sit in another awkward silence until the end of breakfast. 

　　Not soon enough a bell rings like yesterday and a mass of bodies all stand up and once and go to throw their things away. I follow suit and so does Castiel. 

　　“I can show you to where we have group. If you want.” He looks, and sounds a little hurt. I don’t know where the change of heart came from, but I’m willing to accept it. 

　　“Uh. Yeah. Sure.” I respond, unsure. 

　　He just smiles and gestures for me to follow him and I do. 

　　He leads me back towards the direction of our hall and we reach in and walk all the way down to the end and Castiel opens up a door and enters. I follow.   
　　About eight chairs are set up in a circle and Castiel sits down in one. I don’t know if it matters which one, so I tentatively take a seat next to him and we wait for everyone else to arrive. '

　　Castiel doesn’t say anything. He just picks a piece of string hanging off of his shirt and within a few minutes more people begin to fill the room, all kids close to my age, some looking just a few years younger, close to Sam’s age. The thought of Sam being in here makes me sick. I promised Dad I would protect him with my life and I’ll be damned if I don’t. 

　　A few moments after everyone has taken their seats an older man comes in. 

　　“Morning, everyone!” He calls. He sounds British and is wearing the most ridiculous and deep v-neck I have ever seen. 

　　There are a few mumble back at him, but that’s it. I still do do not understand how so many people can be so damn cheery in this place, given, it’s all the doctors and the nurses and none of the patients. The only patient I’ve seen who doesn’t look like he’s completely miserable is Castiel, he’s also the only patient I’ve met now that I think about it. And you can tell that this kid has been through some shit. He is in here for close to the same reason that I am after all. I know that the doctors and nurses aren’t here because of the same reasons as the patients, but you would think that after a while all of this stuff would start to affect them. Being surrounded by sadness sure can get to a person. But not these people apparently. 

　　“My name is Balthazar and welcome to group. Now a few ground rules in case any of you forgot. I also see a couple of new faces,” He makes eye contact with me and another kid sitting across from me, we look to be the same age. “Welcome to recovery.” he tells us. I can hear the other kid snort but Balthazar either doesn’t hear it or chooses to ignore it. I don’t say anything, I just look down  
.   
　　Castiel leans over to me and whispers “He does this every time.”

　　“Everything said in this room is 100% confidential and not to be shared with other patients. And if word gets out that you’ve been running your mouth, lets just say that it won’t be pretty. Understood?” 

　　I nod along with everyone else.

　　“Great, so. Who wants to start us off today? Crowley?” He asks, looking over a stocky teen with dark hair. 

　　“Not today, mate.” He responds in a surprisingly Scottish accent. I don’t understand what’s up with all of the Europeans around here, but I don’t dwell on it too much. 

　　“Maybe later.” He say with a wink. 

　　“How about you, Castiel? How are you feeling today?” 

　　“All things considered, I’m doing good.” Castiel responds. 

　　“Anything you would like to share with the group?” Balthazar asks, something about his tone vaguely sarcastic and condescending. 

　　Castiel thinks a moment before he speaks in a quiet voice, “The voices haven’t been so bad lately. Every once and a while I can catch a few hours of sleep at night.”

　　Balthazar’s face lights up. 

　　“That’s great! And soon enough you’ll be better enough to get out of here.” 

　　Castiel actually snorts. “I doubt it, but thank you.” 

　　This merits a small frown from Balthazar, but he doesn’t say anything about. 

　　“Has anyone else experienced any progress?” 

　　Nobody says anything. 

　　“No one? Alright. On to today’s topic,” he says as he sits down in a chair at the head of the circle. “And today’s topic is coping. I know a majority of you have been through a great deal in your life and that’s why you’re sitting in these chairs. But it’s important to remember that you’ve made it this far, and everything can only go up from here.”

　　He rambles on about negative coping mechanisms i.e, drinking, drugs, smoking, self-harm etc. I use or have used nearly every single thing he lists. 

　　I look around and see a lot of guilty faces. I guess I’m not the only one. 

　　He then goes into why we use these ways to cope. “And why, do you kids do what you do? Hurt yourselves in order to not feel the pain.” 

　　I had never really though about it like that, but it’s true.

　　I drink and I smoke and I pop pills and I do reckless things and I hurt myself. All so I don’t have to deal with that fact that I hurt so bad I can’t stand it. It’s a whole lot easier to deal with the physical pain than with the emotional. 

　　Balthazar looks around the little circle and his eyes land on me. “Dean?” 

　　It take a moment to realize that he’s asking me directly and I panic. It’s like in school when the teacher asks me a question I don’t know the answer to. Although this is a different topic altogether. This has nothing to do with knowledge and everything to do with personal opinions and I am not the sharing type. 

　　“Oh, come on now.” Balthazar prods. 

　　I swallow and look him in the eyes, they look friendly enough, but I still don’t trust him. 

　　The entire room has gone dead silent while waiting for me to answer. I feel a panic raising in my chest. 

　　“Uh. Because most of the time physical pain is a hell of a lot easier to deal with then the emotional crap?” I say, not entirely sure.

　　Even though I know this is one of those questions where any answer goes and there are no wrong answers I’m afraid that I gave him a wrong one. 

　　“And would most of you agree with that?” Balthazar asks everyone else. 

　　They all nod. It’s kind of reassuring.

　　“Does anyone else have anything that they’d like to add?” He asks and some kid, I think his name is Gordon, raises his hand and Balthazar nods at him and he talks about how he does it because he feels like he deserves it. Like if he does something he shouldn’t like goes out or asks someone for help he deserves to be punished. 

　　I’d never really thought about it like that but I realize I do the same thing. Like when I get a bad grade (which is all the time) or if I put myself before someone else.

　　Group goes on like that for a about an hour until Balthazar announces that it’s time for us to move on to our next activities. 

　　Castiel stands up. “What do you have next?” 

　　“Uh. Creative writing.” I tell him with just a hint of disdain in my voice. 

　　 Castiel smiles. “I do too.”

　　“Oh.” Is all I can think to say. 

　　We head off together, me trailing a little bit behind Castiel. I still don’t know my way around this place. 

　　“So, how long have you been here?” I ask him, grasping at straws for conversation and hoping that the question is not too personal. 

　　“I’ve been here for about two weeks. But the time before that it was a month, and the time before that a month and a half.” He says. 

　　“I’m sorry.” I respond because I’m not sure what else to tell him. 

　　“It’s okay. They feed me. Give me a place to sleep. They keep me off the streets. Make sure that I get my meds.” 

　　This kid just keeps on stumping me. I thought I was bad. 

　　We don’t talk anymore on the way to writing. The silence just a little less awkward, so at least that’s improving. 

　　He turns down a corridor and I follow and he stops about midway down the hall and opens a door and walks in and I follow. 

　　It looks a lot like a classroom, only instead of desks, computers line the walls. 

　　“You can sit wherever.” He tells me and once he takes a seat I take one next to him because I still don’t know anyone else in here. 

　　After a few minutes everyone else ambles in and a middled-aged man stands up from behind a computer at a desk. 

　　“My name is Chuck Shurley. You can just call me Chuck. I teach writing. Any questions?” No one says anything. 

　　“Great. Pull up a word document and start writing. It can be anything. Songs, poetry, stories. You can write it like a diary. You just have to write.” He tells us. “I’ll read it if you want me to, if not, that’s fine.You just have to write something.” Chuck goes back and sits down behind his desk and starts typing away at his keyboard. 

　　Castiel pulls up a document and starts hammering away at his keyboard as well. 

　　I look around the room and I see some kids are typing and others are staring blankly at their screens. 

　　I know I should write something about my feelings, let it all out. But instead I elect to alternate between writing out my favorite songs and typing the word fuck over and over again. As much as I read, I’ve never been one for that sappy poetry shit. Whether it be reading it or writing it. 

　　I glance over at Castiel’s screen and see that he’s written close to three pages. I try not to stare but a few words catch my eyes. All about the voices. How they won’t leave him alone. How he just wants them to stop. How he just wants to be normal. I feel for this kid, I really do. I thought I was bad. 

　　The bell rings. “Alright. If you want me to read what you’ve written then just leave your word document up, if not, then just close out of it. I’ll see you all tomorrow. 

　　Lunch is a lot like dinner wherein I sit in a semi-awkward silence with Castiel marred by an occasional question from his end (What my favorite book was and my favorite band. The kid never offered any information about himself in response.).

　　 Then we go to assembly which turns out to be a group lecture where everyone in the hospital has to attend and some big fancy doctor gets up and speaks about coping with mental illness (which I wish they didn’t call it that, it makes me feel like I’m guano.) 

　　I guess that was the theme for today because they talk about the positive ways to deal with it and the not so positive ways and I end up not paying attention. I just watch as Castiel draws idle doodles with his fingers on the scars on his arms. 

　　When they dismiss us, Castiel and I walk silently back to our hall and he stops outside of his door once we arrive. 

　　He looks at me over his shoulder and then opens his door and walks in. He leaves the door open and I am unsure of what to do, I stand there. I do not know if he wants me to come in or-?

　　Almost as if though he sensed my hesitation he calls “You don’t have to just stand there. You can come in.”. 

　　I take a single step over the threshold and take a moment to look around. His room looks identical to mine, just more lived in a guess. I little less sterile. He has a few books on his end table. 

　　“You can take a seat.” He tells me, gesturing over to the chair in the corner. I walk over to it while he roots around in a bag, looking for something. I take a seat in in while he finds what he’s looking for. A sketchbook by the looks of it. And charcoal. He walks over to his bed and takes a seat, leaning up against the headboard and bringing his legs up to his chest. He rests his book against them, flipping it open. 

　　“You like to draw?” I ask. Of course he likes to draw, Winchester, he has a fucking sketchbook.

　　“Oh, yeah. Uh, it’s all kind of dark for the most part. It helps sometimes.” He says, tracing his pencil across the page lazily, adding scribbles here and there. 

　　He stops after a moment and looks up at me. “Who do you live with?” 

　　Those big blue eyes are giving me the look Sammy always gave me whenever he wanted something, it typically doesn’t work with anyone else but him, but I can feel myself leaning towards telling him. 

　　“Bobby. He’s a family friend. He looks after me and my brother, Sam. What about you?” 

　　“I’m a ward of the state.” He says, matter of fact. He looks back at his book and starts drawing again. 

　　I don’t know what to say to that. A simple sorry doesn’t really seem good enough. But that’s what I say anyway. 

　　“It’s okay. What happened to your parents?” He asks, not even looking up. 

　　I feel myself stiffen at the question. I don’t like talking about it. To anyone. Not even Sam or Bobby. Right after Dad died they both tried to get me to talk about it, but I couldn’t. Not after everything that happened. 

　　Castiel looks up after the extended silence. “They uh- they both died. I don’t really like to talk about it.”

　　He looks me in the eyes. There’s an intensity to him that makes me nervous and feel exhilarated at the same time. He doesn’t say anything, just goes back to whatever he’s drawing.

　　We sit in his room for the rest of the time before dinner not saying much. Every once and a while he’ll look up and ask me a question about a book or a song or a movie and I can’t help but starting to feel like I’m warming up to him. He’s just so damn innocent and broken looking that I can’t help to. 

　　We go down to dinner together when it’s time and we sit together and when it’s over we walk back together. Somehow or another we end up back in his room and he draws and I sit there flipping through his books. He has a few that I’ve read before, but none of my favorites. He has a lot a books on different religions. 

　　“I didn’t think that they let us bring in outside items?” I ask, holding up one the books. 

　　“They don’t.” He responds, looking up at me. “They have a library. I can show you tomorrow.” 

　　I start reading this one book he has on pagans and recognize a few of they symbols that he has etched into his skin. I keep on reading the book because it’s actually pretty interesting and before I know it a voice over the intercom is announcing lights out in five minutes. 

　　I suggest that I should get back to my room and Castiel agrees. I get up and walk to his doorway and turn around to face him. 

　　“Uh. Night, Cas.” I tell him. 

　　He raises his eyebrows at me. “Cas?”

　　“What, no one ever call you that before? Your name is kind of a mouth full.” 

　　He shakes his head. 

　　“Oh.” I say. “Are you okay with that?” 

　　“Yeah. It’s fine. Just new.” He says with the first smile I’ve seen on his face all day. It really brightens him up and I can feel my stomach do this weird flip thing. 

　　I chuckle in response. “I’ll see you later, Cas.”

　　“You too, Dean. Good night. Sleep well.”

　　And with that, I’m out of his room and back into my own. 

　　I shut the door quietly with a click and change into my sleep clothes and lay down, suddenly realizing just how exhausted I am. 

　　I close my eyes and try not to think about what I do every night. I try to keep the negative thoughts of worthless and never good enough away. 

　　I combat them with thoughts of deep-blue eyes and a crinkly smile. I eventually drift off into an uneasy sleep. 

 

　　  
　　  
　　  
　　My dreams are filled with black wings and the smell of smoke and sulfur. I feel like my chest is caving in. I wake up to the sound of screaming. I jolt awake, heart thudding loudly in my ears. I look around my room widely for a moment before realizing where I am. I lay back down and squeeze my eyes shut and try and silence the sound of my heavy breathing. I listen for the screaming to come back but it doesn’t and I realize that it must have been me and I try to go back to sleep. My heart is still beating painfully in my chest and I wish for about the thousandth time that I could just go home. That I could be somewhere familiar and that I could be there with Sam because let’s face it, even though that kid has a good head on his shoulders I still worry about him and he needs someone to look out for him and it’s my job. It’s the only job Dad ever gave to me and I can’t protect him when I’m here and I can’t even protect myself. 

 

　　I drift back off after sometime and don’t wake up again until another nurse comes and wakes me up to start my day. And just like so many other nights I don’t remember what the nightmare was, just that I had one and I wonder when and if this will ever end.


End file.
